Instead, she just stares at it, and I’m disappointed, I admit. Even without the potential of finding treasure, I’d hoped it would be a homecoming, of sorts, this gift from her mother long ago, traveling around the world before it returned here.
Annika’s mind seems sharp, but perhaps she’s forgotten this season of her life. Or blocked it out.
I open the book and show her the first listing. Annika rubs her hand across the corner of the paper as if it’s some sort of talisman to help her remember. “She knew...”
Sigmund leans over the book, scanning the line with her.
“What did she know?” Josh asks.
Annika looks up at him before turning to me. “How did you find this book?”
“It seemed to find me,” I tell her. “The children of a man named Max Dornbach sold it in an estate sale, and my sister purchased it for me.”
Recognition glints in her eyes, followed by a flood of fear. Iwant to reassure her, not cause any more pain. I show her the inscription at the beginning of the book and then skip ahead to the newspaper clipping of Max.
“I think the book was trying to find its way home,” I say.
“Max is gone?”
I nod. “He died three years ago.”
Annika traces the edge of the torn clipping. “I never knew if he survived the war.”
And so I tell her what I know about his home in Idaho, about his clinic for animals and the daughter who adored him as much as Sigmund clearly adores his mom. As I tell her these things, atear slips down her cheek.
“My uncle met you, after the war,” Josh says, trying not to cross over the established no-treasure-talk line. “He and his men were searching for items that the Nazis dumped in the lake. We thought you might have been writing down some of these items in your book.”
“Neither Hermann nor I wanted the Allied soldiers to search the estate,” Annika says, her fingers still on the edge of the book. “The Nazis did dump things in our lake, but I don’t know where they hid any treasure. People have searched for generations and have found nothing hidden on the estate except bones in a pet cemetery.”
Josh sits back in his chair, his gaze focused on his daughter leaning back in her swing as if her toes might really touch the sky. “What were you recording?”
“I never wrote in this book.”
I glance over at Josh, wishing I could decipher his eyes. Is Annika lying to us, or did someone else use her book to record stolen items?
From my handbag, I take out the full newspaper clip of Max and Luzia dancing and slide it across the table. She stares down at the couple from so long ago, wiping away her tears. “So you know of Luzia Weiss through the newspaper piece?”
I shake my head. “I’ve known about Luzia for most of my life.”
“But how?”
I retrieve the photocopy of Luzia’s name inside the Hatschi Bratschi story. “From another children’s book.”
This time Annika’s eyes grow wide. Instead of touching the photocopy, her body lists to the left. I reach for her shoulder, ready to catch her in case she tumbles again, but she doesn’t faint this time.
Slowly she reaches out and takes this paper, clutching it to her chest. The way she curls over it reminds me of Charlotte.
“Where did you find this?” she demands.
“I’m not certain,” I say slowly, “but I think the book was with Luzia’s daughter.”
“Her daughter?”
“During the war, someone took my friend—Charlotte—to an orphanage near Lyon, France. Her paperwork was lost, but this remained.”
“Marta,” she whispers.
I glance over at Sigmund, but he is focused on his mother. “Would you like to rest?” he asks.
